


The Sound Of His Thunder

by Cloudillusion



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: 80s AU, AU, Daaaark, Gay, I Don't Even Know, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I have no idea what I'm doing, John isn't gay. Uh, M/M, McLennon, Paul is a serial killer, Serial killers omg, Silence of the Lambs References, Slow Burn, paul is bi, this is garbage, this sucks so bad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-07-04 17:34:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15846057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cloudillusion/pseuds/Cloudillusion
Summary: Dark times indeed. A serial killer known as Martin  Sweet is prowling London's club scene, torturing and murdering young men engaged in cross-dressing. His calling card is a handful of sweeties hidden among their bloodied clothes.Recently promoted Detective Inspector John Lennon is charged with interviewing serial killer James Paul McCartney, known as the Busker Butcher; famous for strangling young male street performers with a bass string and dismembering their bodies. McCartney's insight might prove invaluable in catching Sweet. If Lennon can get him to talk, if he's willing to give McCartney what he wants.





	1. Wakefield

**Author's Note:**

> This is a thing I made. Uh. It's kind of Mclennon meets Silence of the lambs. Be gentle.  
> I don't know what I'm doing lol.  
> Maybe I'll write more if i can get my nerve up. Hahahaha.

DI John Lennon celebrated his promotion in a Maximum Security Facility. Chief Superintendent Epstein himself called Lennon to his office that afternoon to give him the good news. 

"Lennon, John W," Epstein read from the manila folder spread in front of him. 

"Present, sir," John said with a small smile. Try though he might he'd never been able to squelch that last bit of rebelliousness. It had taken him far too long to make Inspector because he'd never been keen on following orders. 

"And you never learned to keep your big fat mouth shut," his partner Pete Shotton would say.

"Listen, Lennon. I've heard some very good things about you from your DCI. Some very good things. And well, a job came up and I thought of you."

To be honest, this surprised John. He'd been in a room with Epstein before. Leaving dos and pep talks, the occasional department berating. But until now he would have been willing to bet his black and white Rickenbaker 325 that Epstein didn't even know his name. He was equally surprised DCI George Martin would have anything good to say about him. Martin was unfailingly polite but Lennon's style grated on his nerves. He was constantly on him to go by the book. In fact, John hadn't been expecting to make Inspector at all this year. He'd even told Cyn he'd make an honest woman of her if they gave him the pips. And fuck it. Now he'd have to go and do it. Buy a new suit and rings and all. She'd be wanting a sprog next. 

"Me, sir?' John asked. His timing was off as usual, the word 'sir' came out almost as an after thought. 

"Yes, you. You see we have every able man working the Sweet case and there's a whole mess of paperwork and well, we simply don't have the manpower for it."

The Sweet case referred to a killer known in the papers as 'Martin Sweet'. He- it likely was a man -had already killed three times. Crossdressers who were known sex workers. He left a handful of candy in their pockets as his calling card. Jelly Babies. John remembered that because they were a favourite of his.

"For what, sir?" John asked. Epstein's dithering irritated him but he managed to keep his features composed.

"Ah yes. The job. We need someone to go to interview James Paul McCartney," Epstein said.

"The Busker Butcher? But he's at Wakefield isn't he?" John asked. He was already calculating the drive to West Yorkshire in his head and wondering how much overtime he'd be able to squeeze out of it. He might be able to afford that sapphire ring after all. Just like the one Prince Charles bought Di- only cheaper.

"Yes, exactly right. Now visiting times are tricky but if you leave in the morning you'll just make it. You have three days to convince him complete the questionnaire. I'll give you a file with the details. Now, McCartney has been in there for nearly seven years now. He hasn't been cooperative with this sort of thing in the past. But you're authorised to make a deal of sorts with him. Oh. He likes music. I think you're aware of that."

Everyone was aware of that. The Busker Butcher had killed six before they finally caught him. There were at least another three victims they suspected he'd killed. Strangled them with a guitar string and then dismembered them. He left pieces of them all over London with little cryptic clues. Stuff written backwards and whatnot. Cyn had followed the case particularly closely. They'd only just moved to London that year. 

"God, John, think of it. And he's from Liverpool as well! We probably saw him around," she'd said, horrified and tickled pink in equal measure. 

"You wouldn't have seen him around Miss Hoylake, Miss Prim," John had said affectionately, kissing the tip of her nose.

Cyn was from a good neighbourhood. McCartney was from Allerton. He'd only been a sprint across the golf course away from Mendips, the house John had lived in with his Aunt Mimi who took him in after his mother died. His mum, Julia, had been one of the rare women in law enforcement at the time. She'd been killed in a hit and run by a suspect fleeing the scene in a stolen vehicle. John had been separated from his sisters and sent to live with Julia's sister Mimi instead of his father Alf. It was no secret John became a policeman because of his mother. He meant to do her proud.

"You picked me cause I'm a Scouser, didn't you?" John said before he could stop himself. "You picked me cause you figured he'd hear me voice and start blabbing, like."

Epstein smiled slowly before answering. "And DCI Martin said you sing and play guitar. You've a band."

"Such as it is. Sometimes we do a gig in a pub. Or someone's kid's party."

"He'll eat that right up," Epstein assured him.

After the meeting with Epstein, John went out for a couple with Pete and the others, managed to leave before the pub closed. In bed with Cyn he told her the good news and the fact that he'd be leaving for Wakefield in the morning.

"You should have called! I'd have baked you a cake or something. Or at least had some Bolly in the fridge!" 

He promised they could celebrate properly when he got back. He was too tired to fuck but she gave him a nice blow job and then he fingered her clit while they watched an old Bogart film.

The next day he made it to West Yorkshire in just under four hours. He figured if all went well he could swing by Liverpool after and visit Aunt Mimi. Mimi hadn't been impressed with his choice of career or his choice of girlfriend. She let him know on a weekly basis that she'd always expected him to become a barrister or a doctor. Not frittering his life away in law enforcement and living in sin with that mousey thing. The old cow was never satisfied. He ate a bag of chips in a chippy and went over the questionnaire. The deal for McCartney was a load of bollocks. They were offering him a transfer to another facility, supposedly category B. A fucking serial killer! John wasn't at all sure what this questionnaire was supposed to achieve but it sure beat the mountain of paperwork he had waiting for him in London. 

He was welcomed by a man in an expensive suit and a flashy smile. He reeked of Drakkar Noir aftershave.

"Allen Klein," the man said. His handshake was firm but he barely looked John in the eye, he was too busy looking at his suit and shoes. "I've been in charge of Mr. McCartney's well-being since he was brought in. You're in no danger DS Lemon, provided you adhere to a few simple rules.

"Detective Inspector," John corrected. "Lennon. Like Lenin but with an o."

"Ah. What is that? Irish?" He said it so disdainfully. 

John imagined punching the man in the mouth so his teeth rattled. He didn't answer.

"No paperclips, no staples, he has a felt tip marker do not give him a ball point pen. A nurse let him get a hold of a pen a few years ago, he severed her vocal chords. If you stick with Mr. Aspinall you should be fine. Oh, and DS Lennon, do let us know if he tells you anything of interest."

John assured him he would, held up two fingers to Klein's departing back. Aspinall saw it apparently and gave him a grin.

"You'll be fine. He's really a gentleman as long as you're polite and treat him with respect. And well, if not he can't get at you anyway from behind bars."

McCartney's cell was all the way at the end of a long corridor. John had to walk past at least four cells.

"Come here princess," an inmate called out to him "Want to play hide the salami with me? I can smell your come."

He didn't even bother looking in direction of the voices. John had a young face, an expressive mouth, rather on the small side and chestnut brown hair that brushed his collar but none of his features merited being called 'princess.' His nose was long and beaky, his eyes narrow and myopic, he wore glasses. His eyebrows were thick. Today, John was wearing a pair of grey trousers, a pale blue and white stripped shirt and a paisley tie. 

At last he made it to McCartney's cell. It was further away from the other cells. Across from a linen closet. Aspinall brought John a fold up chair but he didn't sit in it. McCartney's cell was decorated with drawings rendered in crayon. John recognised a few of the images. The Eiffel Tower, the Statue Of Liberty, a portrait of Elvis Presley, a bass guitar. It was a Höfner violin bass. John had seen one in a shop window once and admired it's shape. There was a small shelf and a small neat stack of books. He couldn't make out the titles on the spines. The man himself was sitting on his bunk, both feet on the ground, looking down at a magazine in his lap. He was dressed in a blue boilersuit but somehow managed to seem elegant. He was the sort they called Black Irish. Hair so dark it was almost black and that pale skin. All at once John found himself thinking of Snow White.

"Mr. McCartney," he called out. "Mr. McCartney may I talk to you for a moment?  
"

The man glanced up from his magazine and looked straight at John, his expression impossibly composed. 

"Good morning," he said. He sounded so ordinary. John had been expecting a choir of angels. Perhaps he sounded different when he sang.

"Good morning, Mr. McCartney. I'm DI John Lennon. We've been having a bit of trouble on a case and were wondering if you might lend a hand?"

"We being, Brian Epstein of the Metropolitan Police Department in London," McCartney replied.

"Well... yes..." John said slowly.

"But you're not from London are you, John Lennon?" He said it in an exaggerated Cockney accent. 

"No. I'm not," John said. He paused a moment because he knew McCartney could plainly hear where he was from. He had a urge to say something pithy and he knew he shouldn't. "I'm from Liverpool. You know I am because you are too."

McCartney nodded. He got up, walked over towards John, right over to the bars. John could see his face clearly now. He had a pretty mouth. Pretty as a bird's. His eyes were wide and hazel, framed with thick, dark lashes. His brows were startling, dark and fine, arching over his eyes like he'd drawn them on. John wondered if he plucked them. 

"How is Brian these days? Still no luck with the lads? You're his type you know? A bit rough around the edges, with sad eyes. Good mouth. You know how to use it. But it's your tongue that gets you in trouble," McCartney said.

John bristled at once. He wasn't a faggot. He often got asked about it but so did many of the lads. It was just school yard humour. He's gay, he's sucking the guv off. All that. He managed to keep his mouth shut for once. When he looked up McCartney was watching him.

"I'd like to see your identification now," he said politely. 

John reached into his jacket pocket to pull it out and spilled the contents of his pocket on the ground. His wallet, ID card, a lighter and at least two plecs. He scooped everything up and shoved it into his pocket. Then he held the card up for McCartney to see.

"It says Detective Sergeant here. Epstein sent a Sergeant to interview me? Times must be hard," he said with a smirk.

"I was promoted yesterday. Don't have the new one yet. But really. Why don't you judge for yourself if I'm good enough to interview you? What does rank really matter?" John couldn't keep the spark of anger from his voice, he folded his arms over his chest.

McCartney was motionless for a while and then nodded once. "Very well, John Lennon. What did Pete Townshend say to you? In the next cell over?" he asked.

"Pardon?" John asked. He wasn't expecting the segue.

"Pete Townshend in the next cell when you walked in he said something to you. What was it?"

"He asked me if I want to play hide the salami and that he could smell my come," John answered.

"Ah," McCartney said. "I can't. Smell your come."

He leaned closer to the bars and sniffed the air. 

"L' Eau Sauvage, chip grease and Gitanes."

"That's right!" John exclaimed. "Is that your party trick, then? I can pull a pound coin out me nose. Works a treat on the ladies."

"Can you?" McCartney asked, clearly amused. "Are you a homosexual, Mr. Lennon?"

"Now, see here! There's no fucking need... there's no call for that..." John sputtered.

"It's a simple question. Either you are or you aren't. I myself enjoy both men and women."

"I have a fucking girlfriend!" John spat.

"I had several myself," McCartney said conspiratorially. "And a great many young men eager to pleasure me. There's no greater pleasure than that. Another man's hand on your cock. Stroking it just right. How could a woman ever know quite how to touch you? I bet I could make you sing like a Fender Telecaster."

John felt his cheeks burn. "I think we're done here! Aspinall! I'm done." 

McCartney took a step closer to the bars and Aspinall appeared, running his wooden baton along the metal.

"Be good now, Paul. You want your music later don't you?"

"Yes, Nell," McCartney said quietly.

"I'd like to leave," John said. He put his hand into his jacket pocket and felt the rolled up questionnaire in it. He couldn't leave now. He couldn't admit defeat only minutes in. This was his chance to prove he'd earned his pips.

"You were doing so well until then," McCartney remarked soothingly. "Very professional. You only lost your temper when I started to imply you were queer."

"You don't know me," John muttered.

"Don't I? You know what I see when I look at you John Lennon? I see a middle class lad caught between wanting to seem posh enough to make rank and seem working class enough to fit in with the uniforms. You have some taste, the jacket is tailored but the tie... someone bought you that tie for your birthday. That girlfriend of yours. You gave her a little kiss by way of thanks and squeezed her breast. Then she let you fuck her. Her night dress up around her chin, her eyes screwed shut. You didn't make her come. Barely came yourself. Just a dribble and then you went soft again. You feel guilty about her. That's why you wore the tie today. You so desperately want to be better than your parents. You want to do it right. The job. The girl. You're going to prove them wrong. But your angry. That's what I smell on you. Rage. You want to leave your job, get up on a stage and show them what you can do. I bet you hold your guitar like you hold your dick. Your shoulders a bit too tight, squeezing the neck, pulling it upwards as you beat off."

John swallowed nervously. He'd clearly seen the plecs. That's how he knew. He wasn't a wizard. He could just read John's face like a book. "You see a lot Mr. McCartney. But can you turn your eyes to the face in the mirror? Look at who you are? It could help us catch Martin Sweet. The truth is hard to take. Maybe that's what you're scared of." 

"I don't have a mirror. I might break it and use the shards as a weapon," McCartney said softly. "It's time for my meditation now," he continued. "Nell will see you out."

John felt his stomach dip in disappointment. He'd thought they were getting somewhere. McCartney gave him a nod and stepped backward to his cot. John struggled to arrange his thoughts as he walked back down the corridor. He had to walk past Townshend again and wasn't relishing it.

"You want my fist up your bum, don't you, twink?" Townshend called out. "Don't worry, I'll lube you up right!" 

John lunged at the cell, Aspinall grabbed him at once, holding him back. Townshend flicked his fingers at John and he felt something wet and warm on his face. 

"DI Lennon!" McCartney was calling out. "DI Lennon!"

John tried to wipe the sticky wetness from his cheek. It was come. The bastard had thrown come on him. He walked back to McCartney's cell, struggling to stay calm.

"That was unspeakeable. That never should have happened to you. There's no need for crudeness," McCartney said. His colour was high. When he got excited his whole face changed, he lit up inside and was blinding to look at. 

"Then you'll help me catch Sweet? You'll answer these questions?" John asked desperately. He reached into his pocket for the rolled up paper held it out to McCartney.

McCartney didn't reach for the roll. Instead he held something through the bars. 

"Paul!" Aspinall called out in warning. 

It was a square of cloth. McCartney was offering him a handkerchief. John took it before Aspinall could stop him. McCartney's fingers grazed his own and he felt his stomach flip dangerously.

"No, I won't answer your questionnaire. But I will say this: come back tomorrow," McCartney said, calm again.

"What happens then?" John asked insistently. "What happens tomorrow?" He clutched the handkerchief but didn't use it. 

"Tomorrow never knows," McCartney said cryptically.


	2. Blackpool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To catch a killer John has to let a killer in. Will he regret playing McCartney's game?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg i got so busy! The summer is over... but here's the next chapter anyway.
> 
> It's so crap omg! Haha. I didn't even edit. Anyway let me know how you like it. I'm not even really sure what happens next!

The second morning in Yorkshire John rose early, went for a run and then got in the shower. He shut his eyes and tried to imagine Kim Basinger in a three piece suit in 9 1/2 weeks as he tossed himself off but all he could think of was the way McCartney had described him: shoulders too tight, holding his dick like a guitar neck, pulling it upwards towards his navel as he stroked. John couldn't help think of those wide hazel eyes, that mouth. Shit. He hadn't done this since he was a lad when he let a school mate touch his prick on a dare. He'd gotten off to it a few times before the guilt got the better of him. He remembered how excited it had gotten him. He'd barely gotten a good grip on his prick before he'd spilled. He'd gone to confession over it. Three Hail Mary's. He wondered how many Hail Mary's this was worth?

He tried to push the thoughts away, picture Kim's long legs instead. McCartney's fingers, brushing his. The arch of those dark brows. _No woman can ever touch you the way a man can. I could make you sing like a Fender Telecaster._ Before he knew it he was shooting into the stream, his heart going like crazy. He wasn't gay. He'd never go with a man. Didn't everyone have some misguided childhood experience? This was just the case, getting under his skin.

John paid close attention to his clothing this morning. He chose his old school tie and knotted it carefully. He figured McCartney would certainly recognise it and Cyn hadn't picked it for him. While he ate eggs and sausage in the breakfast room of the B&B, John contemplated his next move with McCartney. It made him uncomfortable just thinking about it but in the end he knew it was his best shot McCartney liked him. He'd made that abundantly clear. He'd been outraged by Townshend's action, he'd given him the handkerchief. What did a bit of flirting with a man mean, if he could help solve the Sweet case?

When he got to the prison an ambulance was just driving off at breakneck speed. There was turmoil in the prison, the clamour of hundreds of prisoners. He had to ask three guards before he finally found Neil Aspinall.

"Nell!" John said, adopting the nickname McCartney had used. "What's happened?"

"Townshend tried to kill himself. Sliced his hand on a shard of mirror," Aspinall explained.

"Jesus! Where did he get it?" John asked. He knew where. He just didn't know how. McCartney's handkerchief was burning a hole in his trouser pocket. He hasn't used it to wipe the come from his cheek after all. He'd just folded it up and inhaled the scent of prison laundry soap.

"No one is sure. But I know Paul made it happen, that devil. He was whispering to him all night, and singing. In the morning they found Pete in a puddle of blood," Aspinall said.

"Is he... will I be able to see McCartney?" John asked, his thoughts racing. He understood why McCartney had done this. He'd done it for him. 

"You can see him. But Klein wasn't happy. He's got a review coming up and this will look bad."

"I thought you said no one is sure what happened?" John asked.

"Paul's a stone in Klein's cheap knock-off shoe. Always has been. Ever since the time he got hold of a demo Klein did when he was younger and played it on the speakers so everyone could hear. Doesn't have to be Paul's fault for Klein to blame him. But truth be told, it's usually his fault." 

John stated at him in disbelief. 

"Paul's got ways believe me. There was a guard here before me. Big Mal. Paul had him wrapped round his little finger. Used to bring him extra food, anything he wanted. Ended up in a lunatic asylum. You watch your step DI Lennon. Don't think you can play Paul. Paul invented the game."

Nell led him down the long corridor again, the walk seemed even longer without Townshend to taunt him. There were women cleaning Townshend's cell. The whole place stank of bleach and blood. When John got to McCartney's cell he noticed the changes immediately. The drawings were missing and the books. The cot had been stripped of bedding. He didn't even have a blanket. McCartney himself was sitting on a chair bound at the foot and wrist. His eyes were shut, his face composed.

"Hello John," he said. "I didn't think they'd allow me to keep our date. But it seems fate smiled upon us. She has a soft spot for lovers."

John felt all the blood rush to his face. "Just because you guessed a few details when I dropped the contents of my pocket doesn't mean you know me," he said angrily.

"Ah yes, the contents of your pocket. You have my handkerchief there. Pressing against your dick. Yes. Right there," Paul said.

John felt his cock swell at McCartney's words like he'd cast a spell on him. Like he was his puppet. 

"It's alright. Perfectly natural," he assured John. "You're curious. You probably got off last night, thinking of what I said." 

John forced himself to take a step forward, turned to the side for a moment to see Aspinall, he was engrossed in his crossword puzzle. Then he took another step forward and pressed his crotch to the bars. Had McCartney not been bound hand and foot he might have easily reached forward, touched the bulge of John's cock through the bars of his prison cell.

"This morning," John whispered.

McCartney's brows arched upward in plain surprise. "Oh, Johnny!" he crowed. "Quite the firecracker aren't you?"

"So I've been told," John said thoughtfully. "Why did you tell me to come back, Mr. McCartney? What did you want to share?"

"Patience is a virtue, love. There are conditions."

"Naturally."

"This is how we're going to play the game," McCartney said slowly. "You do something for me and I'll return the favour." He ran the tip of his tongue over his top lip.

"What do you want me to do for you?" John asked cautiously.

An expression of boyish mischief was stamped upon McCartney's face. "What wouldn't I like? You could get down on your knees like an altar boy, suck me off like you're praying to Jesus."

"I could," John said thoughtfully. "If you could walk over here. But you can't, can you? Klein had you shackled to that chair. "

McCartney pulled a face as though that were simply a minor annoyance. "Bar that then...you're from Liverpool. Where exactly?"

"Woolton, Menlove Avenue," John answered.

"Is that so? Neighbour. And you lived there with your Mummy and Daddy?" Paul asked.

"My Aunt... Mimi..."

"Aunt Mimi, eh? Face like a battleax? Voice like chalk on a blackboard?"

"She's a fine woman. Raised me like her own," John said defensively. 

"Oh, I have no doubt she did. No doubt. Where were Mr. and Mrs. Lennon, then?" McCartney asked. 

"Dad was a small time crook, pissed off when I was still wearing short trousers. Mum was a policewoman. Died on the job when I was thirteen."

"I lost my own mum around that age," McCartney confessed. 

John couldn't help wonder if McCartney had murdered his mother but he didn't dare ask. He had to stick to the task at hand.

"Before that... one big happy family?" McCartney asked. 

"Not exactly. Mum was living with a fellow who was nice enough I suppose. They had two daughters: Jackie and Julia. When Mum died they lived with him and I got to live with Mimi," John said. He couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice.

"And before Mr. Nice Guy? Daddy just up and vanished?" McCartney asked. He was pushing John along, taking him places he didn't want to go. 

"No. It was... I woke up one night to the sound of a dying motor. That sputtering sound. Like an old chainsmoker lighting that first fag in the morning. I knew... I knew he was leaving and wouldn't come back. I got in the boot. And when we got to Blackpool he opened it and saw me. He bought me Blackpool rock and took me on a roller coaster. Then he dropped me off at the Police station, had them take me back to Mum. They say I didn't cry all the way home. I cried alright when Mum got hold of me. I remember being sick all over the carpet in me bedroom. The taste of peppermint still makes me ill."

"And you never saw him again," McCartney said.

John shook his head. He still looked for him, even now, two years under the ground. The sound of a motor stalling still had the power to make his heart beat faster, his hands sweat. He could still remember the smell of the place. The sea, the stench of chip grease and shellfish, gasoline and over it all the sharp, sweet scent of peppermint. Dad's hand squeezing his too tight. McCartney was staring at him, his hazel eyes so strange, so dark. Like he could see John's memories like a film.

"And then you grew up and became a policeman. Never looked him up?"

"I did. He did time in Scotland. Had a heart attack a couple years ago and died in hospital there. Mostly I just felt..." John hesitated.

"Disgust. How could I have been born of such common stock? When I have yearnings inside me... no mere words can express," McCartney continued.

"Music," John whispered. "Only through music."

McCartney inclined his head.

For a moment they were silent, they just stared at each other. For one absurd moment John felt he had never been this close to another human being before. Then he remembered who this was. A man who had strangled at least nine people, torn them limb from limb, because he found their music lacking.

"Now it's your turn," John said firmly, breaking the spell. "Quid pro quo."

McCartney let out a short laugh. "Yes. Martin Sweet. What do we know about him, then?"

"The press chose the name Martin at random for all I know. The Sweet part was on account of the candy found on the bodies. The papers are intent on making him into the next Yorkshire Ripper. Fucking vultures. His victims have been men between ages seventeen to twenty-four. Exclusively cross-dressers. Exclusively in the club scene. Each victim was missing some item of clothing possibly taken by Sweet: knickers, a shoe off one, the most recent one was missing an ear. All the victims were found in close vicinity of the club they went missing from. He didn't take them far," John recited.

"Well done DI Lennon. I could have read as much in any tabloid. What do we know about Sweet?"

"He's... uh... he's likely young enough to fit in on the scene. He's new at this... He... he's... is he angry at them? Envious of them? He's not molesting them... not noticeably. Was he surprised when they turned out to be men? He's definitely gotten bolder since the first one," John said haltingly.

"Who was the first one?"

"Mick Taylor. Twenty years old. Known as Marie," John read from his notepad. 

"Oh? Is that so? You see, John. I'm not at all sure poor Marie was the first."

John looked up at McCartney in a hurry. "Why do you say that? What do you know?"

"Let's just say Sweet and I have things in common,"he said, giving John a sly smile.

"What things? Do you know who he is? You have to tell me!" John exclaimed.

"Oh. I don't know his real name. Sweet is good enough for now. I'll tell you this. It's all in 'London Town'. Look for a boat. In 'London Town.' "

"There are thousands of bloody boats in London..." John practically shouted. 

"You had it right, Johnny. You had it so right. Only through music," McCartney said cryptically. "Ah and there's Nell now. He's come to take you away from me, John. Will I see you again tomorrow? Parting as they say is such sweet sorrow." 

John wasn't sure he would be back tomorrow. He still had to report his findings to Epstein. He still had to figure out what McCartney meant with a boat in London Town. He said goodbye to McCartney and Aspinall led him back to the entrance in silence, a few steps ahead of him, his stride respectfully measured. 

"You need to be careful DI Lennon. Promise me you will be. Paul doesn't have all the answers. He's just good at dangling a hook and bait. You seem like a decent sort," Aspinall said when they reached the end of their walk. 

"I will," John promised him. He meant it too. He would be careful. He'd walk that close to the edge of the cliff. No closer. He wouldn't do anything he was too uncomfortable with. 

Aspinall didn't look entirely convinced. "If I were you I'd look into his music," he said.

"His..."

"Paul's music. That's what it's always about in the end. All those people he killed. It's all tied together," Nell explained.

John drove to the nearest music shop and asked if they had anything by Paul McCartney. The shopgirl showed him a selection. She was a tiny thing with a New Wave sort of look. 

"Oh my god! I love him. He's fab. Just dead gorgeous. His voice... he could do me any day," she screeched.

"You know he's in prison. He's a murderer," John said, rolling his eyes.

"Who cares? That's even sexier, isn't that right? He's dangerous." 

She handed him a bunch of L.P.s 'Venus and Mars', 'Back to the Egg', 'Speed of Sound'. He pulled one out from the bottom. It had a photograph of Tower Bridge on it and McCartney's old band: Denny Laine and Linda Eastman. He put his hand on the title emblazoned on the cover of the album. The hair on the back of his neck stood clean up. It was called 'London Town'. McCartney hadn't meant look for a boat in London. He'd meant look for a song on this album.

John bought the record and drove back to the B&B requested the use of their record player on official police business. There were fourteen songs on the album. Though the lyrics were printed on the inner sleeve, John listened to every song. He'd listened to McCartney before. He had a few of his albums, though not 'London Town'. Maybe Cyn had it on tape it was the last one released before he was incarcerated. Looking down at the cover, John wondered if he'd fucked tweedy Linda Eastman or smoothfaced Denny Laine, or both of them.

He'd heard every one of these songs before. He'd liked 'Don't Let It Bring You Down'. 

_Up and down your carousel will go_

_Don't let it bring you down_

Every song sounded different with his head full of McCartney's voice. After two days of speaking so intimately with the man, it was easy to imagine every song was a message for him. John realised he'd never really listened to the lyrics of the last song before. It had a good beat. The lyrics were a tangled up mess but one line jumped at John:

_The grey goose was a steady boat_

_People said she'd never float_

_One night when the moon was high_

_The grey goose flew away_

_**The grey goose was a boat.** _

John stopped the record at once. He was bubbling over with excitement, jumped up and sprinted for a telephone. "Pete! Pete, I have something!" He shouted down the line at his partner in London. "You've got to look for a boat, any kind of boat called The Grey Goose!"

"Aww, John I was just finishing up some paperwork. Was hoping to cut out early. What's it again? Grey Goose?" Pete said.

"Grey Goose, that's right! Write it down Shotton! You're going to find something to do with Sweet I'm sure of it. And McCartney."

"Okay, I'll do it, keep your knickers on. Are you back in London later, then?" Pete asked.

"Yeah, I'm leaving right now," John said.

He didn't bother packing, just paid them another few nights and headed to his car. He was itching to call McCartney to tell him he'd figured out the clue. It occured to him later he hadn't even called Cyn to tell her he was coming home. He realised depending on the outcome of this finding he might not see McCartney again. Epstein could hand the case over to a more seasoned detective. The idea that today would be the last time he'd ever see McCartney again made his stomach squirm. John tried to concentrate on the other cars on the road. But Paul was in his head. Taunting, tempting, singing to him. The needle was stuck in the groove, John was humming a tune over and over. How did the words go again? How did they go?

 _Don't go down - don't get out of town_

_Get to know how it goes, how it goes_

_When the price you have to pay is high_

__

_Don't let it bring you down_


	3. London Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John follows Paul's trail of breadcrumbs back to London where he finds something that may be the answer to the case. But all paths seem to lead him back to Paul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so, so, so sorry! Life got sooo crazy. But things are okay now! And I'm back with this!!!  
> Is anyone out there interested still?? Sorrryyyyyyyy.
> 
> Anyway in case you forgot what happened last John discovered there really is a boat called The Grey Goose in London and he's going there to find out if there's a connection between Paul and Sweet.

The Grey Goose was a boat and it belonged to one James Paul McCartney. Pete had found it docked at St. Katherine's marina in the shadow of the Tower bridge. They decided to wait until daybreak to investigate the premises. That night John slept in an empty cell in the station as he sometimes did when he was working all night on a case. He called Cynthia to say he didn't want to go home only to wake her, she needed her rest. Cyn taught art in Secondary School, the kids were beastly, John wouldn't have traded with her for the world. She sounded disappointed but resigned. Cyn was used to his manic approach to work, he was like that with his music too and had been like that with her in the first flush of romance. The stakes were higher this time, this was life or death. He had to go back to Wakefield having found the next piece of the puzzle. He had to go back to Wakefield, full stop. He was playing a dangerous game but if he won it could be the making of him. 

John slept badly, he'd been dreaming of Blackpool again, of the crushing pressure of his father's hand but when he looked up he saw it wasn't his father at all. It was McCartney. John drank his tea black with extra sugar as the milk had gone off, ate a couple of stale biscuits and then set off to the St. Katherine Docks. The inside of the boat was hung with paint-smeared sheets. The whole place smelled stale as the inside of a tomb. When John took a step inside his foot displaced the dust, his footprints were starkly visible, etched in stone. Pete had drawn his weapon and was advancing hesitantly.

“It's not like he's here waiting for us,” John said disdainfully. “He's locked up in Wakefield.”

Pete kept his gun in his hand anyway. John's whole body bristled with needles and pins. Despite what he'd told his partner he kept looking over his shoulder, half expecting to see Paul standing there, his preternaturally bright eyes wide, his mouth twisted into a mocking smile. The interior of the ship was plain, serviceable. The bed wasn't made, the yellowed white Irish linen sheets folded back as though someone had just drawn them to one side and risen to start the day. The cushions, edged in simple farmer's lace, were askew. On the bedside table, which was bolted to the ground in case of turbulent weather, there was a pot of vaseline and a box of tissues. John spied a glint of silver from among the tissues and turning to see if Pete was watching, he pulled out a piece of jewelry. It was a bracelet with heavy silver links and an identification plate engraved with four letters: Paul. John grasped the trinket and shoved it into his jacket pocket before he could think about it. He could feel it there, burning a hole in his pocket. A thrill shot through him, tickling him from his head to his toes.

Pete was tugging at one end of the paint-stained sheet that adorned the wall gingerly. 

“Wait!” John exclaimed, but Pete had already torn the thing from the wall.

It fell away revealing a wooden shelf, there were a number of large glass jars all labelled in a careful hand. ‘Trite’, one said. ‘Off key’. ‘Boring’. ‘Childish’. ‘Rude’. ‘Repetitive’. The were filled with liquid and in the liquid floated human remains. Hands, eyeballs, severed lips, ears and other parts John didn't want to examine too closely. To the far left was a jar labelled with a wrapper from a sweet. John leaned forward to see it better it was a waxy green wrapper printed with the words: Toffo, green apple. There was a hand in the jar floating in that murky liquid, large and mannish but ringed in silver, the last vestiges of what must have been nail polish on the fingernails. John pulled out his handkerchief- his own handkerchief- not McCartney's and turned the jar carefully. 

“There's something stuck to the bottom, like,” Pete said, handing John a pair of latex gloves. 

John snapped them on and lifted the jar. On the bottom of the glass container someone had taped what looked like a driver's licence. He peeled it off and unfolded it. Lewis Brian Hopkin Jones, the license read. Born 1942 in Cheltenham. 

“The sweet wrapper. You think it was Martin Sweet way back then?” Pete asked in a hushed tone. 

John shrugged absently. “I'm going to the tea shop down the way. Use their phone to call this in.”

As soon as they'd called it in and waited for the team to show up to collect the evidence John drove home to shower and pick up fresh clothes. He planned to be on the road back to Wakefield within the hour. He figured he would just about make it before visiting hours were up. But if he didn't he intended to get in to see Paul by hook or by crook. Cyn walked in just as he was fastening McCartney's silver bracelet around his wrist, she seemed pleased to see him and then her eyes fell to the case at his feet. John pulled his cuff over the trinket and buttoned it tight. 

“Travelling back again, are you?” Cyn said quietly, setting down her muffler and gloves. 

“We've had a breakthrough,” he said apologetically. 

“Oh, no. Of course,” she murmured. Her eyes were downcast. “Just. I thought we could shop for Mum's pressie tonight. Maybe see a film. You'll be there for Mum's birthday tomorrow, won't you? Only, I've told everyone you're coming.”

“Of course I'm coming! I promised I'd see Mimi as well, didn't I?” John asked pulling her near with one arm. 

He leaned down to kiss the top of her head distractedly.

“I have a bad feeling...I worry so, John. If you're shot...if anything were to happen to you. I don't think I could bear it.”

“Nothing's going to happen. Everything's right on track. My promotion. This case.” He tilted her head up to kiss her lips. “You'll be a lovely June bride don't you think?”

Cyn's eyes filled with tears. “Oh! Do you mean it?”

John assured her he did. And then kissing her again, finished dressing and left. He didn't realise how desperate he was to be back until glancing at the speedometer he saw that he was speeding. His heart was going so fast it was in his throat. He thought it was because with a bit of luck they might solve the case tonight. With a bit of luck McCartney knew Sweet's identity, after all he'd kept the hand among his own trophies. Had he disposed of the body for Sweet?

At the next petrol station John stopped and telephoned ahead to say he was coming. Klein was not impressed.

“DI Lennon. You can't simply stop by like it's a social call. Like Mr. McCartney is your bit on the side. There are rules.”

“Yes,” John agreed, raising his voice. “And I don't give a tinker’s fart about the rules. I must insist I be allowed to interview him tonight. Time is of the essence.”

He slammed the phone down, paid for his petrol and sped the rest of the way to Wakefield. The blood was thumping in his head. He was expecting an argument but instead Nell was waiting for him at the gate. His eyebrows were raised so high they almost reached his brow.

“He's been talking about you,” Aspinall said in lieu of hello.

“What did he say?” John asked, struggling keep the flush from his cheeks.

Nell hurried him along, one hand on John's elbow. He reminded him of a mama duck. 

“He says you see him,” Nell answered.

John looked down at his shoes. He picked his good shoes, highly polished, brand new. He bought them for a wedding. The tie was new too. The shirt was his best one.

Nell stared at him for a long while before speaking.

“I take it it's mutual,” he said softly. “I just want the violence to stop. That's all. Promise me?”

John wasn't sure he even understood what Aspinall was asking him to do. How could he reassure him when he didn't understand? He promised anyway and Neil led him down the corridor, past Townshend's empty cell and all at once he was looking through the bars at Paul again.

“DI Lennon,” McCartney said softly. “John.”His voice struck John in the breast, he felt it radiate through him, warm and seductive and confusing.

“Mr. McCartney,” John said and that was as far as he got.

“Well, I take it you have made some fabulous discovery! Perhaps you've found Martin Sweet's first victim? Dear Brenda…”

“Lewis Brian Hopkin Jones.”

“Yes. Brian Jones. Went by Brenda. Lovely voice. Girls absolutely loved her. So did the boys.” McCartney paused for a moment for impact. “It broke my heart when she met that grisly end. So I put her away with my own treasures.”

John gripped his right wrist anxiously, felt the silver chain beneath his cuff, the small engraved name plate. If he pressed it against his wrist hard enough he wondered if those four letters would be branded into his skin.

“Let's stop playing games and speak plainly. If you know who Sweet is, you have to tell us,” John said with a sternness that was mostly feigned. “You could help us put him behind bars.

“Yes. I could, couldn't I?”

McCartney backed away and leaned against the wall casually as though he were simply waiting for a taxi. It was then John realised with a jolt the chair had been removed and the mattress and the small cassette deck and stack of tapes. The tiny shelf was bare, all the books were gone. The walls were naked. John couldn't help stare, his mouth gaping open.

“Yes. Pete is recovering nicely. He's likely enjoying his little vacation. But I'm afraid Mr. Klein was not at all amused with my role in the matter. He's taken away my small pleasures. I'm quite surprised he let you through.”

John felt his face burn at those words. “I insisted.”

“Did you? Ah, to have been a fly on the wall during that conversation. Desperate to tell me you'd solved my riddle, were you? Well, I know Nell lent a helping hand. It's his way.”

“He didn't help that much,” John said irritably. “If you really wanted to help you could stop talking in riddles and tell me who Sweet is.”

“If I wanted to,” McCartney mused. “You see, John. The fact of the matter is I don't have anything to lose. I will remain incarcerated till the end of my days and now Klein has taken away my music…”

There was something so sad about the way he spoke those words. Something chilling. As though his freedom was a small price to pay for his crimes. All that mattered was the music.

“I have Epstein's ear. I can have all your things back within the hour. What's his identity, Mr. McCartney?” 

John doubted he'd even reach Epstein now. It was a Friday and the sun had gone down. McCartney seemed to realise he was bluffing as well. Those jet black eyebrows shot up, his pretty mouth pursed sceptically.

“A gentleman never makes promises he can't keep, you know,” McCartney admonished him.

“Who says I'm a gentleman?” John countered.

“Aren't you still with that poor girl? She can barely grasp the stuff your soul is made of. She wants a house, a girl and a boy. She wants to invite the neighbours for tea and tell them how proud she is of you.”

John looked straight at McCartney, locked eyes with him. Every word was true.

“But you've been half hard ever since we met, isn't that so?” 

John gritted his teeth. “I've asked you not to talk that way.”

“What way? You and I, John. Birds of a feather. You think you can go home to her after you've caught the scent of a true partnership?”

John started to laugh, it came out high-pitched, frantic. “We're not partners. We're nothing alike. I'm no poof.”

The silver bracelet felt warm around his wrist, like the chain a convict wore in days of old.

“I've got you...under my skin,” McCartney sang. 

“The only sort of partnership I'm interested is one where we work together to catch Sweet. That's all I want,” John said.

“That's all? Are you willing to pay the price?”

“Price?”

“What will you give me, John? What will you do for me if I help?” McCartney sang.

“I told you...I'm not...And anyway you're in there it's not like you can...I mean…” John stuttered.

McCartney laughed, low in his chest like the growl of some feral beast. “Ah, John. If only I were out there with you. The pleasure I could give you.” 

“Please,” John said softly. He needed him to stop talking almost as much as he wanted him to go on.

McCartney was a million miles away, his eyes glassy, distant, like the fantasy was more real than the stark cell in which he stood. 

“Quite right,” McCartney said. He tone abrupt and business-like once more. “There is something I want. I want to record again. I want an instrument. A good tape recorder. Perhaps a keyboard. I'm going to die in here, John. I want to make music again.”

John nodded solemnly. The man was a killer but to take away the means to utilise his god given gift was downright cruel. It was inhuman.

“I will ask Epstein what can be done about that,” John said at last.

“Will you?” McCartney asked. He sounded like a little lost boy.

“Yes.”

“And will you...visit me tomorrow?”

Tomorrow was Cyn's mum's birthday party. He was expected there. Likely around this time tomorrow he'd be banned to the space around the fireplace where all the husbands stood smoking cigarettes. Considering what he said to Cynthia a few hours ago he supposed she'd want them to make an announcement. What did it mean that he'd rather spend the weekend in this godforsaken place than celebrating his engagement to Cyn?

“It's Saturday tomorrow. I'll be in Liverpool at a birthday party.”

“Ah,” McCartney said, a faint shade of disappointment tinting his voice. “I haven't been home in ages.”

“It hasn't changed much,” John reassured him dryly.

McCartney slid down to the floor and sat Indian style. He looked so young, so unthreatening. He looked like he needed a warm clap on the shoulder. 

John wasn't sure McCartney was going to say anything else, he seemed oddly deflated. “Sing me something,” he said at last. 

John blinked, certain he'd imagined the words.

“Sing me something, John. Something of your own,” he repeated.

John let out a short bark of laughter. “Not bloody likely. If you don't like my song you'll send Nell to do me in. They'll find me tongue in a jar labelled: ‘Amateur’.”

“We're a pair you and I,” McCartney insisted. “I knew it the moment we met.”

After a while John took a step closer to the bars. “Don't have a guitar with me. It's no good without guitar.”

“I can hear that part in my head. Sing.”

He sang a song he'd written while on holiday with Cyn in Spain. A delicate tune that ached with confusion and longing for his lost childhood.

“Let me take you down, cause I'm going to Strawberry Fields. Nothing is real, and nothing to get hung about…” John sang. 

McCartney was staring at him, his eyes so intense he had to look away. As the song drew to a close McCartney lifted his voice to join him and shivers ran down John's spine. Their voices complimented each other perfectly. As though they had been created for the sole purpose of harmonising with each other. What was it McCartney had said? You think you can go home to her now that you've caught the scent of a true partnership? John felt like his world had imploded. He was lying in the wreckage of his carefully constructed life. It was the best he'd felt in years.

_Strawberry fields forever, strawberry fields forever, strawberry fields forever..._


End file.
